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I watch your eyes tracing my face.
Furrowed brows suggest blurred image.
Slow, slow, not in haste—
Mine is a forgotten visage,
Erased like tales of the village,
You fondly shared, from where you came.
I watch your eyes tracing my face,
And pray you will recall my name.
Your calloused hands will think of mine:
“We have held these some other place!”
The embers of your past will flame—
And I will hear and help to heal,
Waiting for signal or for sign.
Slow, slow, with hands to feel—
As I carry onward, blind,
Hoping that which I seek, I find.
Competing interests None declared.
Provenance and peer review Not commissioned; internally peer reviewed.